


thumb, index, palm

by PaintedVanilla



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Borderline Personality Disorder, Burns, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Married Couple, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 12:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17745803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla
Summary: Wilson takes his mood levelers. He takes his antidepressants. He has has good days and he has great days and fine days and okay days. He has bad days. He has abhorrent days. Some days he’d like to curl up in House’s arms and be talked off the edge. But he can’t ask for that. He has no reason to be on the edge in the first place.





	1. Chapter 1

They never really talk about it.

There’s nothing more to discuss about it, really. House has good days and House has great days and fine days and okay days. House has bad days. House has abhorrent days. Wilson already knows every little detail about the things House’s father did to him. He doesn’t need him to explain why he’s having the kind of day he’s having. He doesn’t need him to explain the ups and downs of how his mind still struggles to deal with the heaps of trauma his father laid on thick at such a young age. Wilson will just hold him through bad days and coax him off the edge with gentle words the way he always does.

It’s formulaic, which House hates. It always unfolds the same way, and the same things always calm him down, so he shouldn’t get worked up in the first place. But he can’t talk himself off the edge; it has to be Wilson who holds him and whispers in his ear everything and nothing. Promises of love and protection and adoration that House would normally scoff at. They’re indispensable when they spill from Wilson’s lips.

Sometimes, Wilson thinks he should tell House. It’s a recurring thought that swirls around in his head until inevitably, House has another episode. Then, Wilson locks the idea back up, shoves memories into the nooks and crannies of his mind where they’ve stayed for so many years. They’re nothing compared to what House has been through. They’re not comparable to his husband’s issues. They’re not trauma. They’re not worth being brought up.

And yet there are so many things that set him off.

The oven timer goes off. “Can you grab that?”

House doesn’t move from where he’s sitting. “You’re asking the guy with a bum leg to handle burning metal?”

Wilson tosses a glare at him, gets the pan out of the oven anyways. If his hands shake, House doesn’t notice.

“Wilson, if you’re not going to do anything but stand there and be my moral compass, can you get out of my office?”

“Wilson, where’s my moral compass when I need him?”

_“James, I’m not going to tell you again. Don’t spend another day sat up alone in your room.”_

_“James, where do you think you’re going? You’ll die of heatstroke, it’s a million degrees out there.”_

Contradictions. Contradictions. What to do about contradictions?

House tries to kill himself one, two, three, four times. Oxycodone overdose. A fork in an outlet. A motorcycle crash. An insulin shot.

_“I’ll go out to the car and shoot myself up with insulin and die, then.”_

Wilson tells himself the tears he cries have to do with his suicidal husband. Of course they do. He cries over him and only him. Why would this have anything to do with his father?

 _I should tell him,_ Wilson thinks, but then House needs a shoulder to lean on for the evening. He needs a shoulder to cry on. He spends hours that night unable to think about anything besides his father’s hands all over his skin while Wilson holds him and no, no, no, he shouldn’t. There will never be a good time. There will never be a right way. House will scoff and push him aside and tell him, “No, that doesn’t count. Look at what I’ve been through. We’re not the same.”

Wilson’s scars litter his body; more numerous in number than House’s, but his is the more noticeable. It’s larger, uglier. It calls for attention every time he undresses. It spends every waking minute reminding House that it’s there. Wilson’s scars don’t do that. They litter his knees, his elbows; there’s one on his hand. They’re common. They see ten people a day with the same scars; long healed burns, long ago scraped up skin. It never has anything to do with anything. It’s unimportant.

Wilson takes his mood levelers. He takes his antidepressants. He has has good days and he has great days and fine days and okay days. He has bad days. He has abhorrent days. Some days he’d like to curl up in House’s arms and be talked off the edge. But he can’t ask for that. He has no reason to be on the edge in the first place.

So many things he has to avoid; barbecue sauce; _The Offspring;_ Randalls Grocery Store Chain; Sperrys shoes; jean shorts; margaritas; golf; hot pans; electric stoves.

Wilson is forty-five years old, and sometimes he still asks for House’s permission to do things. Like if he doesn’t, House will grab him by the back of his shirt and throw him against a wall.

 _Greg would never,_ Wilson thinks to himself as he watches the man he loves play the piano. He takes a sip of his whisky and reassures himself silently over and over and over again. But is there every any real way to know?

Wilson burns his hand.

Left hand. The inside of his thumb and index finger, part of the palm. He grabbed the pan again, like a fucking idiot, but at least he didn’t drop it. He knows how to treat a burn, _fuck,_ he’s a fucking _doctor,_ but he does exactly what he did the first time. He wraps his hand up in a kitchen towel and stands there silently, like maybe if he stays quiet, when he lifts the towel the burn will be gone.

House comes into the kitchen, looks at him oddly. “What are you doing?”

Wilson takes a moment to answer. “Nothing.”

House frowns. Takes half a second to reassess the way Wilson is standing, what he’s doing with his hand. “Did you burn yourself?”

Wilson hesitates. “Yeah.”

“Soak it in cold water,” House tells him. “Why do you have it in a towel?”

Wilson smiles lightly. “Because I’m stupid.”

House helps him treat the burn. It heals. Wilson has a hard time figuring out of the scar is from the first or the second time.

House has a patient. She’s nine. She has lymphoma.

“She’s yours now,” House says; his tone says he’s bored by his eyes say he’s concerned. “I’ll hand you off.”

“You’re gonna come with me?” Wilson asks.

House won’t look at him. “I’m not a big fan of the dad.”

When is House ever? Still, if he’s voicing his opinion solemnly instead of snarkily, if he wants to come be in the room, he must see something.

The atmosphere of the room is tense. The girl is on the bed and she has a sister sitting in the corner of the room, and her father is standing and staring out the window. He’s wearing a worn out tee-shirt and jean shorts. Wilson hates him. He introduces himself politely.

He explains what Lymphoma is. The longer he talks, the more girl in the corner of the room begins to cry silently. The girl in bed doesn’t cry at all, though. She keeps her eyes fixed on her father, who’s looking back at her. He doesn’t look sad. He just looks bothered. Like this is an inconvenience. House stays by the door, his eyes flickering back and forth between the girls and their father. For once, he keeps his remarks to himself.

“Is she gonna die?” the dad asks bluntly.

“No,” Wilson answers, quick and succinct, because she’s laying right there and she’s _nine._

He doesn’t ask anymore questions. He doesn’t cross the room to comfort his daughter. He stays as far away from her as possible.

“I’m going on walkabout,” the dad says bluntly to the other daughter. “Watch your sister.”

He leaves. The sister crosses the room and holds her sister at an awkward angle, like showing affection in her fathers presence wasn’t allowed. Wilson watches the two of them sadly.

“You can get up on the bed,” he urges her. “What’s your name?”

“Riley,” the girl says quietly. “This is Grace.”

“Grace,” Wilson says warmly. “I’m Dr. Wilson. It’s nice to meet you.”

He coaxes conversation out of the two of them slowly. Grace looks exhausted; not just because she’s been in the hospital for three days being tested for anything and everything. It runs deeper than that.

“Am I gonna die?” Grace asks.

“No,” Wilson says gently. He doesn’t offer anything beyond that, though, because he can’t make any promises.

“Can I die?” Grace asks, and Riley shushes her harshly.

The tips of Wilson’s fingers feel numb. “Why would you ask that?”

Grace won’t say anything else; she won’t answer anymore of his questions. She stays screwed up in her silence until Wilson and House finally leave the two of them alone.

House shuts the door behind them. “They’re being abused.”

“Yeah,” Wilson says softly.

“Do you wanna make the call, or should I?” House asks.

“I’ll do it,” Wilson assures him. “I’ll do it.”

Wilson stays late. “Go ahead home,” he tells House when he appears in the doorway of his office. “I have paperwork to finish.”

He does not. He waits half an hour and goes down the Grace’s room.

Her father is back. He’s dragged a chair to the other side of the room to sit as far away from his daughters as possible. Wilson smiles at him. “May I speak to Grace alone?”

The father sits up, aggressively. “Why?”

“Just trying to reassure her about some things,” Wilson assures him politely.

The father leaves. He sits out in the lobby and stares into the room angrily. Riley has sat up in her chair, watching Wilson nervously as he sits down next to her sister.

Wilson shuts the blinds and asks the two of them if they’re being abused. Both of them immediately refuse, startled and nervous, so Wilson narrows it down and asks them specific questions. Does he make you nervous? Ignore you? Leave you alone? Put his hands on you?

“He throws me,” Grace interjects suddenly.

“Throws you?” Wilson asks.

“Against walls,” Grace tells him.

Wilson is quiet for a long time. Unnerved by the silence, Riley leans forward, about to cry. “Please don’t tell him.”

“I won’t say anything to him,” Wilson promises her. “But I have to call someone.”

They both look scared now. “Please don’t.”

“I have to,” Wilson tells them. “I know that’s hard to understand, but I’m not allowed to keep this a secret.”

“I’m sorry,” Grace says suddenly; she’s not saying it to him, though. She’s staring up at the ceiling, tears running down her face rapidly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Wilson assures her gently. He reaches up to wipe her tears and she jerks away from him. He retracts his hand immediately. “Sorry. I won’t touch you.”

“I want to die,” Grace whispers.

Wilson’s heart breaks. “Don’t say that,” he tells her. “You’re too young to be thinking like that. You’re going to be fine.”

Neither of them will answer him. Wilson sits in silence for a long moment, debating with himself internally. He shouldn’t talk to them about this. They’re too young. He doesn't know them. He’s not a therapist. He’s here to treat Grace for her cancer, not her obvious trauma.

“My dad was the same way,” Wilson says before he can stop himself. Both of them look at him silently. “He was… distant. Didn’t show affection. Made me feel bad for everything. Like everything was my fault, even things I couldn’t control. He would throw me against walls and threaten to hurt himself if I made him mad. But it… does get better. I promise you. Not every man in the world is like your father. There are gentle people out there.”

He looks gently at Grace. “Being sick isn’t your fault. I’m sorry he’s making you feel like it is, but nobody gets to control whether or not they get sick.”

He gets both of them tissues, and a cold rag to help the blotchiness of their faces go away faster. He waits with them until they don’t look like they’ve been crying.

“That really happened?” Riley asks suddenly. “To you? Or are you just saying that to make us feel better?”

“Really happened,” Wilson promises her. “And I’m okay now.”

“Really?” Grace asks.

Wilson thinks about it; he thinks about how he only lets himself cry in the shower and how his hands shake when he gets something out of the oven. How he can’t tell the one person he loves most in the world about it. How he suffered the lesser of two evils; how things could have been worse. He thinks about his mood levelers and his antidepressants and his BPD and the scar on his hand.

“Really,” he says, and prays they believe him.


	2. Chapter 2

They’re arguing.

House always does stupid shit at the hospital. He always flies off the rails and defies Cuddy and does whatever he wants, and Wilson can’t deny that it has benefits, but it still gets on his nerves. It gets on his nerves over and over again, patient after patient, until his nerves are rubbed raw and then they’re arguing back and forth about House’s morals, why he deems it necessary to break every possible rule, and God help Wilson, he never thought these would be the kinds of arguments to drive him to tears.

“You’re ridiculous,” Wilson says, and he knows House catches the way his voice shakes and he waits for him to use it against him.

“Oh, little Jimmy is so distraught over me breaking the rules, he’s going to cry,” House jabs.

“Don’t call me Jimmy,” Wilson says sternly.

They go back and forth for so long. It feels like hours and seconds at the same time. Finally, House stands up from the couch bitterly. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“You never want to talk about this!” Wilson says angrily.

“My leg hurts,” House snaps. “I’m going to bed.”

“You’re always - ” Wilson starts to say, but there’s something about the look House flashes him as he walks past, something about the way his wrist turns handling his cane. Wilson has no control over the way he reacts when he raises his arm up to block his face, closes his eyes, flinches so hard his neck locks up.

House stops abruptly, his eyes wide. “Did you think I was going to hit you?”

“No,” Wilson says immediately. He lowers his hand, but his neck is still locked up, so he can’t move it. He brings his hand up, rubbing it, trying to get it to unlock.

“Yes, you did,” House insists. “Why the hell would you think I was going to  _ hit you?” _

“You’ve hit patients,” Wilson says quietly, because it’s the only excuse he can think of.

“I’ve hit a girl with CIPA and I’ve slapped a guy holding me hostage,” House says. “Those don’t count. She couldn’t feel pain and he was holding a  _ gun.  _ Also, I’m not  _ married  _ to either of them.”

Wilson has finally gotten his neck to unlock, but he’s still holding it with one hand. He’s glaring at House, now. “I don’t know, Greg. I just flinched.”

“You’re using my first name!” House exclaims. “That means it carries importance, otherwise you wouldn’t have used it.”

Wilson rolls his eyes angrily. “It carries no importance. This is just another fucking puzzle to you. One more facet of my life that doesn’t line up with everything else, so it becomes a game.”

“It  _ doesn’t  _ line up with anything!” House says.

“It lines up with everything!” Wilson shouts, startling him. “It lines up with everything, House! You don’t know everything about me! I know you like to think you know what’s going on all the time with everyone, but you don’t! Not even when it comes to me! There’s shit you don’t know about me, and that doesn’t make me a puzzle! It just makes me a person who likes keeping certain things to himself!”

“I didn’t say you were a puzzle,” House says.

“I’m always a puzzle when I do something you don’t understand!” Wilson exclaims. “I’m a puzzle when I try to eat healthy, I’m a puzzle when a nurse flirts with me, I’m a puzzle when I fucking  _ yawn!  _ Half our relationship is you trying to decipher me!”

“You wouldn’t need deciphering if - !”

“I shouldn’t need deciphering at all!” Wilson shouts. “I’m not a fucking puzzle! I’m a person! I’m your husband! And there’s shit in my head that I don’t want you knowing about!”

“You know everything about me!” House points out.

“Yeah, because I waited for you to tell it to me,” Wilson says bitterly. “I’ve known you for over twenty years, House, and I’ve spent that time treating you like someone I love, which is why I assume you feel comfortable  _ telling me  _ your issues. You don’t wait for me. You rip all my secrets out of my hands because you have no fucking patience!”

“If I waited for you to tell me about any of your issues, you’d never fucking tell them to me,” House says. “You’d keep them all to yourself. You’d  _ drown  _ in them. I don’t think I have to remind you about your borderline.”

_ “This has nothing to do with my fucking mental health!” _ Wilson screams, and House looks so startled by the outburst he inches back, just a little bit. Wilson bites the inside of his cheek, wincing at himself. God, he sounds just like him.

House can’t place the look on his face. “What are you thinking about?”

Wilson scowls. “I don’t know, Greg,” he snaps. “I’ll make it a puzzle for you, would that make you feel better? What does me thinking you’re going to hit me, my aversion to barbeque sauce, my BPD, and the scar on my hand, all have in common with one another?”

House is silent, obviously thinking. He stands there for several moments, but he doesn’t answer him. Finally, Wilson sighs angrily. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

He gives House a kiss goodnight. “I’m going to bed.”

House is awake the next morning when Wilson comes into the living room, dressed for work. He looks like he’s hardly slept all night. 

“Got an answer for me?” Wilson asks.

House doesn’t look at him. “Can I have another clue?”

Wilson huffs. He thinks for a moment. “I hate margaritas.”

House looks at him strangely. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

Wilson shrugs. He leaves for work without saying anything else to him.

Cameron eyes House as he writes on the board. “Case?”

“Yup,” House says shortly. His fellows sit up eagerly and wait for him to finish writing. Finally, House spins the board around and tosses the marker in the bin. “Differential diagnosis. Go.”

_ Paranoia of physical attack _

_ Aversion to barbeque sauce _

_ Borderline Personality Disorder _

_ Burn scar on left hand _

_ Hatred of margaritas _

Foreman blinks. “Is that a joke?”

“Nope,” House says simply. “Go.”

There’s a lapse of disbelieving silence.

“Insanity…?” Chase suggests.

“Good guess,” House says. “But wrong.”

“Forgive me,” Cameron says, “but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen  _ aversion to barbeque sauce  _ as a symptom for any life threatening illness.”

“Not life threatening,” House assures her. “But a symptom nonetheless.”

“If it’s not life threatening, why are we discussing it?” Foreman asks.

“Because I’m curious,” House snaps. “And I’ve yet to hear any good ideas.”

“This is kind of a mixed bag of symptoms,” Foreman says flatly. “And I use the term ‘symptoms’ very liberally.”

“ _ Ideas _ ,” House presses.

“Could be a mental illness,” Cameron suggests. “Something coupled with the BPD. Depression - ”

“Patient is on antidepressants,” House says.

“Which one?” Foreman asks.

“ Phenelzine,” House says. “Also on valproate.”

“Mood leveler,” Chase comments. “For the BPD?”

“No, for his hatred of margaritas,” House snaps.

“Those are oddly specific… symptoms,” Cameron remarks. “The BPD could be misdiagnosed OCD.”

“It’s definitely BPD,” House says.

“Are you DDX-ing me?”

All four of them jump, not having noticed Wilson enter from House’s office. Cameron sits up a little straighter. “This is about  _ Wilson?” _

“Okay, bye,” Foreman says, standing up and heading for the door. “I’m not your marriage counselor.”

“This is what I pay you for!” House calls after him as he leaves.

Cameron and Chase exchange an awkward glance, then look between Wilson and House, who’re both being oddly standoffish. Finally, Chase stands up slowly. “I’m gonna - ”

“Sit down, twink,” House says without looking at him.

Chase sits back down.

Cameron scoffs at him, standing. “Okay, I have to agree with Foreman. This isn’t my marriage, I’m not doing the hard work for you.”

She leaves, and Chase is still sitting there obediently, and Wilson is still standing in the doorway. Finally, after a long moment, he walks over to the whiteboard, adds  _ Lyssophobia  _ in his horrible handwriting, then leaves the room without saying anything.

House sits in the lobby outside of Grace’s room and watches Wilson interact with her. He’s gentle; House can’t hear him but he knows he’s keeping his voice soft. He asks permission every time he needs to get close or touch her in any way. House wonders if he and his trauma have had that much of an effect on Wilson, or if his behavior around children is born of something else.

House stays late, and Wilson doesn’t bother him about it. He sits in his office with the lights turned off, staring at the whiteboard. House can connect one, two things to each other. Three if he tries. What the fuck inspires an aversion to barbeque sauce?

“Lovers quarrel?”

House looks over his shoulder to find Cuddy standing in the doorway. He doesn’t answer her question, just looks back at the board. “In the middle of a differential.”

Cuddy stares at the items listed, squinting when she gets to the one at the bottom. “What does that even say?”

“Lyssophobia,” House tells her, without looking up. “It’s the fear of having a mental breakdown. Or the fear of having rabies, but I’m assuming when he wrote it down, he was aiming for the former definition.”

Cuddy looks unimpressed. “You’re doing a differential on your husbands trauma?”

House jerks his head around to look at her. “Trauma?” he looks back at the board. “This… isn’t  _ trauma _ .”

“House, how does trauma present in  _ you?”  _ Cuddy asks. “You have an aversion to touch. You won’t eat pickles. You’re literally addicted to drugs.”

“Wilson isn’t addicted to drugs,” House points out.

“And trauma never presents the same way twice,” Cuddy says. 

“… What caused the trauma?” House asks quietly, mostly to himself.

“Ask your husband,” Cuddy says. “There’s this thing called communication. Healthy couples do it all the time, you two should try it.”

When House gets home, Wilson is sitting on the couch. “I diagnose you with trauma!”

Wilson raises his eyebrows. “Of what variety?”

“The shitty parent variety,” House says. “I happen to have a little expertise in that particular area of trauma, so spill.”

Wilson looks away from him. “No.”

“No?” House asks, incredulous. “No? I just spent all day trying to connect the most batshit crazy things about you and I did it!”

“No, you didn’t,” Wilson says. “Cuddy did.”

“Cuddy’s not your husband,” House says.

“Cuddy didn’t tell all her employees that I have borderline!” Wilson snaps, turning around to face him. “You know how I feel about that!”

“Well I have to list every symptom, otherwise - !”

“It was a made up differential!” Wilson exclaims. “That was personal! If you’re going to diagnose me with  _ trauma  _ you should have to common sense not to show my symptoms off to your team!”

“I didn’t know it was trauma when I wrote it down!” House argues. “I… okay, look, I know I’m notorious for being stubborn, but I… I don’t want to keep arguing about this, James.”

Wilson looks over his shoulder at him wearily. House continues. “It’s  _ trauma,  _ James. What the hell happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Wilson says, looking away.

“ _ Something _ happened,” House says, walking over to the couch. “Something… like me - ?”

“No,” Wilson says quickly. “Not that bad. It’s not a big deal, House.”

House sits down next to him. “It is a big deal.”

“It’s not,” Wilson insists. He’s not mad anymore, just tired.

“James,” House says, pulling Wilson close to him. Wilson doesn’t relax into it, but he doesn’t push away either. “Just tell me what happened.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Wilson repeats, and there are tears rolling down his face.

House lifts his hand up. He places a kiss to his thumb, and then his index finger, and then the palm, where the edge of his scar is, and Wilson dissolves against him in tears. House holds him  and whispers in his ear everything and nothing. Promises of love and protection and adoration. They’re indispensable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment cowards


End file.
